


Ghost of Christmas Past

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 01:03:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from harry-gleeky-starkid-potter:<br/>John- still thinking Sherlock is dead- is shocked to find him in his apartment on Christmas morning</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost of Christmas Past

John startled awake, again. The walls were thin enough in his cheap flat that he was quite used to being awakened. Generally it was the neighbor’s baby, or sometimes the shouts of the elderly Miss Taylor down the hall who always thought someone was breaking in. No one ever was. But today was neither, just the soothing sounds of a violin. He hadn’t met the neighbor on the other side, but apparently he had a visitor. Or a new stereo. Or had taken up the violin. Who knew?

 

His eyes pricked with unshed tears. Listening to the lively rendition of ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’, John couldn’t help but remember the Christmas party so many years ago. Did everything have to remind him of Sherlock, even still?

 

The walls were so damn thin. It practically sounded like it was coming from his livingroom. It was tempting to go bang on the wall, but it was Christmas. He had felt like Scrooge enough lately and he was tired of it. He was tired of everything. He opened the bedside drawer looking for earplugs. He stared at his gun, his fist clenching and unclenching reflexively as he consciously willed himself not to pick it up.

 

While they didn’t get on, he just couldn’t do that to Harry. She had finally sobered up this season and they were invited to Clara’s for dinner. If she could kept it up, they might even get back together. She was always better with Clara than without her and certainly he got on with her better sober. So really, he couldn’t do that to her, to either of them. Especially not today.

 

He decided against the ear plugs, too, slamming the drawer closed. He glanced at the clock. It wasn’t _that_ early. Might as well just get up, have tea. And he did have a present or two under the tree.

 

He was just throwing on his robe as the song ended. There was a moment of silence before the playing started up again, and John looked up with confusion when it did. This time, it wasn’t a Christmas favorite. It wasn’t anything he had heard since…it couldn’t be.  But it was. John would have recognised Sherlock’s compositions anywhere. Impossible, but there was no denying it. He must still be dreaming, but even so, John couldn’t stop himself. The floor felt real and solid beneath his feet as he ran towards the living room.

 

He stopped short in the doorway as the figure before him halted his playing and turned, the impossible greatcoat swirling around him. “Hello, John. Merry Christmas.”

 

It absolutely couldn’t be. But there he was. _Sherlock._

 

He looked worse for wear, his face was scratched and, Christ, he was thin. But alive. John’s mouth worked, but he couldn’t properly form words. He felt dizzy, and reached out. Gripping the doorframe to steady himself, he finally managed a weak, “Sherlock?” A question, a prayer, and an accusation at once.

 

“You’re surprised to see me,” he observed, with a familiar twinkle in his eye.

 

“Well, you’ve been dead for three years. That does diminish the likelihood of a visit. So, yeah,” he paused, huffing out a breath and shaking his head, as if to clear it,“You could say I’m bloody well surprised.” John couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, but the more he spoke, the angrier he felt. In fact, as he began to recover from the initial shock, he was beginning to settle on punching something.

 

He mentally counted to 10, but that did little to abate the feeling. He took a deep, steadying breath, at least trying to ensure that ‘something’ wouldn’t be one, very not dead, consulting detective and turned to punch the wall.

 

 _Fuck, that hurt._ He groaned before letting out a string of mumbled curses “ _Christ! Bloodybuggeringfuck!_ ”  Plaster dust everywhere and now he was bleeding. Fucking hell! Knuckles stinging, as blood streamed from the gash in his hand, dotting the floor. Not his best plan, apparently. He began to laugh, nearly hysterical with it in fact, as Sherlock rushed to his side.

 

“John! Careful, the broken bits of lath are sharp,” Sherlock said, striding across the small space in a few steps, deftly snatching his scarf from the back of John’s chair, as he came forward. His hands were warm where they brushed John’s, wrapping the scarf over his knuckles and pressing firmly over the cut. John’s laughter ended abruptly as they touched.

 

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here like this.” Sherlock said, looking abashed. “I just wanted...”

 

“No, its…” John began, cutting him off, but he really didn’t have anything to say that would excuse this. Trailing off, he began again, letting practical matters take precedence. ”I… I should wash this.”

 

“In a minute, John. Just let it stop bleeding.” Sherlock’s voice was low and intimate, filled with genuine concern, and he made no move to release John’s hands.

 

John wanted to ignore what that voice did to him, but it was all too much. Between the shock and their proximity, he was overcome. Far too many years had gone by. Plenty of time to examine his feelings on what he should have said or done and what might have been. So, even angry as he was, he couldn’t stop himself. In fact, he found that this morning he was beyond trying. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock stiffened in surprise. Whatever he had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t this. But he didn’t pull away and soon relaxed into it, tentatively deepening their kiss. John’s uninjured hand carded through Sherlock’s curls, gripping lightly as he held him close. Sherlock cupped John’s jaw in response and they kissed fervently, until they were breathless with it.

 

Drawing back, they couldn’t help but note the mixture of emotions warring in one another’s eyes. Layers of anger and joy, hurt and regret, sorrow and feelings of betrayal that would have to be sorted in the coming weeks. But in this moment, they were content to have each other.

  
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to RJ for beta reading!


End file.
